hat proofs
of his guilt can I cast in his face?"

"All the same, you ought not to yield without a struggle," interrupted
Madame Ferailleur, sternly. "It is wrong to abandon a task because it is
difficult; it must be accepted, and, even if one perish in the struggle,
there is, at least, the satisfaction of feeling that one has not failed
in duty."

"But, mother----"

"I must not keep the truth from you, Pascal! What! are you lacking in
energy? Come, my son, rise and raise your head. I shall not let you
fight alone. I will fight with you."

Without speaking a word, Pascal caught hold of his mother's hands and
pressed them to his lips. His face was wet with tears. His overstrained
nerves relaxed under the soothing influence of maternal tenderness and
devotion. Reason, too, had regained her ascendency. His mother's noble
words found an echo in his own heart, and he now looked upon suicide as
an act of madness and cowardice. Madame Ferailleur felt that the victory
was assured, but this did not suffice; she wished to enlist Pascal in
her plans. "It is evident," she resumed, "that M. de Coralth is the
author of this abominable plot. But what could have been his object? Has
he any reason to fear you, Pascal? Has he confided to you, or have you
discovered, any secret that might ruin him if it were divulged?"

"No, mother."

"Then he must be the vile instrument of some even more despicable being.
Reflect, my son. Have you wounded any of your friends? Are you sure that
you are in nobody's way? Consider carefully. Your profession has its
dangers; and those who adopt it must expect to make bitter enemies."

Pascal trembled. It seemed to him as if a ray of light at last illumined
the darkness--a dim and uncertain ray, it is true, but still a gleam of
light.

"Who knows!" he muttered; "who knows!"

Madame Ferailleur reflected a few moments, and the nature of her
reflections brought a flush to her brow. "This is one of those cases
in which a mother should overstep reserve," said she. "If you had a
mistress, my son----"

"I have none," he answered, promptly. Then his own face flushed, and
after an instant's hesitation, he added: "But I entertain the most
profound and reverent love for a young girl, the most beautiful and
chaste being on earth--a girl who, in intelligence and heart, is worthy
of you, my own mother."

Madame Ferailleur nodded her head gravely, as much as to say that she
had expected to find a woman at the b